ou, Frank?"

"No," I said, pulling myself together and taking his hand; and after a
pause I went on: "No: curiously enough it has made no difference to me
at all. I do not know why; I suppose I have got more sympathy than
morality in me. It has surprised me, dumbfounded me. The thing has
always seemed fantastic and incredible to me and now you make it exist
for me; but it has no effect on my friendship; none upon my resolve to
help you. But I see that the battle is going to be infinitely harder
than I imagined. In fact, now I don't think we have a chance of
winning a verdict. I came here hoping against fear that it could be
won, though I always felt that it would be better in the present state
of English feeling to go abroad and avoid the risk of a trial. Now
there is no question: you would be insane, as Clarke said, to stay in
England. But why on earth did Alfred Douglas, knowing the truth, ever
wish you to attack Queensberry?"

"He's very bold and obstinate, Frank," said Oscar weakly.

"Well, now I must play Crito," I resumed, smiling, "and take you away
before the ship comes from Delos."

"Oh, Frank, that would be wonderful; but it's impossible, quite
impossible. I should be arrested before I left London, and shamed
again in public: they would boo at me and shout insults.... Oh, it is
impossible; I could not risk it."

"Nonsense," I replied, "I believe the authorities would be only too
glad if you went. I think Clarke's challenge to Gill was curiously
ill-advised. He should have let sleeping dogs lie. Combative Gill was
certain to take up the gauntlet. If Clarke had lain low there might
have been no second trial. But that can't be helped now. Don't believe
that it's even difficult to get away; it's easy. I don't propose to go
by Folkestone or Dover."

"But, Frank, what about the people who have stood bail for me? I
couldn't leave them to suffer; they would lose their thousands."

"I shan't let them lose," I replied, "I am quite willing to take half
on my own shoulders at once and you can pay the other thousand or so
within a very short time by writing a couple of plays. American papers
would be only too glad to pay you for an interview. The story of your
escape would be worth a thousand pounds; they would give you almost
any price for it.

"Leave everything to me, but in the meantime I want you to get out in
the air as much as possible. You are not looking well; you are not
yourself."

"That house is depr